


Partisan Politics

by obsidiangrey



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Chronic Illness, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Historical Characters - Freeform, Historically Accurate, i do try really, multichapter fic, or about as historically accurate as my hetalia fics ever get, other nations to be added as they appear, this may be moving in the direction of rusame, which wasn't intentional but you know sometimes these things just happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsidiangrey/pseuds/obsidiangrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some days when he wishes people had listened more closely to Washington. It would have made his life a lot easier in the long run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It seems as if he's constantly in pain nowadays.

... Actually- no. No, back up a moment. That's a terrible way to start off a monologue, no matter if it's just his thoughts bouncing around his head. Totally unheroic-  _focus_ , America. _  
_

That reproach sounds too much like England for comfort. Moving  _on_.

It isn't a lie, really- he's in pain at every single moment of every single day. Some days are significantly better than others, but even on those days, there's a dull ache settled into the back of his mind, like he's forgotten how to think without hindrance. The good days, he can toss back some aspirin and pretend that it works (medicine for a human really does nothing to the body of a Nation) and go about his day feeling a little bit calmer. Sometimes, he even gets to sleep a full six or seven hours, which he _loves_. Whoever invented sleeping deserves to get a medal. He's stopped trying to pick out which days are the  _bad_ ones. The last time he tried to do that, the tightening vice around his mind just got tighter the more he tried to process things, and he kept needing to change his scale whenever a worse day than a '10' came along. It was too much effort.

Two-hundred years and change is a long time to get used to something. All things considered, he thinks he's doing a pretty good job of it.

* * *

The newly-christened United States of America spends nearly all of his time in the capital-  _his_ capital. It used to be in Philadelphia, but then it moved to New York City- there are supposedly talks of moving it southward, closer to Virginia and therefore closer to Mt. Vernon, the President's home. It garners odd looks, a boy of fifteen frequenting the building in which  _His Excellency_ and the other members of the government meet, but no one ever really thinks to question it. Of course, the President hates that title, has hated that title for quite some time, and insists on being called Mr. President- he has requested, on multiple occasions, that the Nation call him George, but America finds himself suddenly tongue-tied whenever he tries. England never took him to meet any of his monarchs, but here, his leader, his government- they like him! They ask his opinion on things! He feels useful and giddy with happiness.

Mr. Washington (they eventually come to a compromise on the title), Thomas, Alexander, Henry, and Edmund disagree on a lot of things. Mr. Washington tries to keep them in order, warns against partisan politics and political factions- it's never come to shouting, so far as America knows, but he feels like he gets a headache every time the Cabinet meets- Alexander and Thomas specifically... Mr. Washington likes Alexander, and the man has ambition and seems destined to oppose anything and everything that Thomas says. America doesn't want to say that he dislikes Thomas, because he  _doesn't_ , but- Thomas is changing.

Or maybe he never changed. America isn't sure.

On one hand, Thomas wrote the slavery clause in the Declaration (and America has the document memorized, the words never failing to make him beam with pride) and talks about freeing his slaves, but America knows of Monticello's finery and the hundreds of slaves that work the land and how, for all his talk, Thomas has never once allied himself with any abolitionists. Alexander considers himself an abolitionist. That's another thing they argue about, just one of many.

Thinking about slavery makes his head ache and throb, like a noose around his neck except it's around his brain-  _he_ thinks it's wrong, because those slaves are  _people_ \- they look like people and they talk and breathe and live and he can feel them on his land (but they aren't really his, still loyal to the land they came from or  _dis_ loyal to the land which stole them away, and they're only acknowledged as three-fifths a person and if they government won't see them then he has trouble seeing for himself)- sometimes the people think it's wrong and sometimes they think it's right. 

It gets to the point that America forces himself to start thinking about it all together because he isn't sure whether his thoughts are really his or if they're just his people's.  _His people_.

Thomas and Alexander give him headaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Washington's cabinet: Alexander Hamilton (Sec. Treasury); Thomas Jefferson (Sec. State); Edmund Randolph (Attorney General); Henry Knox (Sec. War). Jefferson and Hamilton had a notoriously bad relationship.
> 
> America is going to be getting chronic migraines due to partisan politics. Good times, amiright?


	2. Chapter 2

The the headaches get worse the longer Mr. Washington (who has finally started calling him Alfred, after much,  _much_ nagging and persuasion) is in office. America knows the pressure his government is under to succeed, can feel that pressure building slowly inside him, the stress making his health even worse- he doesn't show it, he can't show it, what would it say about his country and people if he, the personification, can't even back it through the day sometimes- and he turns to the only person he can think of with England gone and France at war and Spain blocking off the Mississippi and Russia far away in his own capital and Washington busy trying to keep the government under control.

"Is there something wrong with me?"

Benjamin Franklin is a very old man. America can tell, just looking at him, that he won't live for much longer- he pushes the thought to the side, far to the back of his mind with all the other things he refuses to think about and hopefully won't need to acknowledge until a much later date. America remembers him as a very  _young_ man, as a boy not much older than America himself looks right now- Ben Franklin, a very old man in body, but still sharp in mind and wit, stares at America incredulously.

"What could  _possibly_ make you think that?"

The year is 1790. Mr. Washington has been in office for eleven months, now. America doesn't play any official role in the government beyond giving occasional advice (which is good, that's how it's  _supposed_ to be- no government should have absolute power over the people- no Nation should have absolute power over the government) and therefore has the time to ride a horse from New York City to Philadelphia to visit his old friend and mentor. He thinks, maybe, that if he leaves the Cabinet and their arguing behind him for a little while, the headaches might stop. It's been hurting more ever since the Treaty of Paris was signed and he felt the last of his ties overseas slip into nothingness, but America is nothing if not an optimist. Hoping is what he does best.

He looks at Ben, and the older man looks so genuinely worried and concerned that America hastens to explain, lest Ben worry himself into his grave. "The sun and fresh air makes it worse sometimes, and I get sick to my stomach- it's so bad sometimes, I don't leave my bed," he says softly. "And... I don't know, but this is new, isn't it? This government, this republic? There's nothing really like it in the world- no one's ever succeeded with a revolution like this before."

Ben doesn't walk around too much. He has gout, and it hurts his feet immensely. The whole time America has been here, he's been fetching things from around the house so Ben won't have to. Still, Ben gets slowly to his feet and shuffles across the room; he sits down next to America and puts his arm over the Nation's shoulders.

"There is absolutely  _nothing_ wrong with you," he says so firmly that, had he declared in the same tone that the sky was green and the oceans purple, America would have believed him. "Think of it like this, dear boy... You are the land, correct? You represent the land and its people?" That's another thing America likes about Ben: never, not once, has he treated America like a child, and at the same time, he refuses to give America the same formalities so many other Nations demand. It keeps his head from getting too big, Ben tells him, and America finds the normality comforting. He nods a yes in response. Ben hums in thought. "You've grown with the land. The more people that flock here, the further west they settle, the taller you get."

Here, he pauses and winks at America, the same light in his eyes when he was twenty still present at eight-four.

"You'll be an old man soon enough!" he crows with a laugh. "But- the land is divided, and the people on the land as well."

America blinks. "I don't get it."

Ben doesn't judge, just continues- "You and I have differing opinions on some things. Every man on this planet can find at least one thing to disagree about with every single other man! So, perhaps- and this is only a theory, mind you-"

"Your theories are  _always_ right," America breaks in. Ben is a brilliant man. America has fought other people over that fact.

The smile Ben gives is of mixed emotions, too many for America to pick out, and he squeezes America's shoulder. "I thank you humbly for saying so," he tells America sincerely. "But perhaps, Alfred, perhaps it is this new government causing your problems. The people have been given a voice, and the people very frequently disagree with one another- you remember the Continental Congress, surely!"

America smiles despite himself. "How could I forget? Mr. Adams' voice echoed all through the city."

Ben laughs. "See, the people argue and argue loudly, and you represent the people, and this is how their arguing chooses to manifest itself. But that can only be expected, in such a new nation. Things will settle down soon enough, dear boy, there's no need to worry!"

 They move on to different topics of conversation soon enough, but America leaves Philadelphia feeling lighter than he has in a long, long time. His head only hurts a little bit, the pain dull and distant, and he thinks he actually feels  _good_ for once.

* * *

Three weeks later, America returns to Philadelphia with twenty-thousand others and attends Ben's funeral.


	3. Chapter 3

Some days are good.

Some days are bad.

Some days are  _really_ bad, but he stops trying to sort them into categories after the first couple decades. Every time he thinks he has a scale worked out, good days and okay days and bad days, a day will come along that's worse than all the others and he'll need to change things again. That amount of concentrated thinking on the pain he's in just makes his headaches worse.

Generically speaking, however: good days are when he can wake up and move about only feeling drained; bad days are when the light burns his eyes. His stomach churns in his gut, and the world spins rapidly around his head if he stands up too fast- though, rationally, he knows that everything is motionless. Sometimes he can manage to fall asleep; sometimes he can't. Sometimes he gets out of bed in the mornings; sometimes he lies under the blankets for an hour or more, mustering up the energy to cross the room and hang blankets over the windowpanes in order to block out the sunlight.

He deals. He's good and dealing with things. Good with coping.

He deals and copes and covers any sign of weakness so well that his bosses don't always notice anything amiss. This is a problem, because the subject invariably comes up over the length of their terms, and America, used to keeping quiet on the matter, generally forgets to tell them. Years and years have passed since George and Martha, whom America was finally on a first-name basis with. Federalists and Anti-Federalists have shifted to Federalists and Democratic-Republicans. Only eight years since the man's death, but Alexander and his feud with Thomas had long-lasting effects; the arguing has never stopped and the people are still divided on every subject imaginable.

"Can't you do something about Congress?" he asks one day, staring at a speck on the ceiling in the President's office. The lamplight flickers, but it's still too bright, the inconsistent flashes making his head spin. A fife and drum play off-beat with one another in his mind. It's too much effort to move.

President James Madison looks up from his desk. "Pardon?"

America takes a few moments to gather his thoughts. They keep flitting out of his grasp. It's hard to focus.

"Congress," he says again, mostly to remind himself what he had been talking about. "My head feels like it might split open any minute. Can't they just  _agree_ on something?"

There's a long pause. America misses the sound of shuffling papers over the sound of blood roaring in his ears. President Madison's voice, when he speaks, is muted. "Congress arguing makes you ill?"

America blinks once, slowly.

"Did I forget to tell you?"

"You neglected to mention as such, yes."

"Huh."

 _Your fault_ , America wants to tell him.

Alexander and James had existed to contradict everything the other said.

_Partisan politics. Should have listened to George._

The White House burns. America takes all the times he thought of writing to his brother with the same questions he once had for Ben and shoves them into that dark corner of his mind and refuses to think of them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James Madison was president of the US during the War of 1812; 1814, British and Canadian troops captured Washington DC (the capital), burned a bunch of government buildings, and then left. Dolley Madison cut a portrait of George Washington from its frame and smuggled it out underneath her skirts.
> 
> Fun times, amiright?


	4. Chapter 4

America can see his people.

He never had another Nation to mentor him, not really. England started to teach him things, but he had only been a child then, and when the Revolution came he was forced to grow up much too quickly. Russia had helped a little bit, arbitrating between him and England after the War of 1812, and he’s even traveled overseas to visit the winter Nation and his boss (Catherine is very... forward about some things). But he had never been taught the nuances of his kind, the perks and the drawbacks and the unspoken creed to which they all adhere. America has had to figure things out for himself; neutrality makes one-on-one conversation difficult.

America can see his people. The longer he stays a Nation, the more he can _feel_ them, tiny little pinpricks of light scattered across the land. His land. He can look at a person and know everything about them; he knows the names of every man, woman, and child on the continent.

America can see his people falling apart.

It had started back during the Revolutionary days. The north and the south disagreed then and disagree now on a good many things. It just kept moving from there. It’s still moving now, the north and the south arguing and clashing, and it makes his head feel ready to split down the middle. Blood is spilled on the Senate floor.

South Carolina secedes first, and America dimly thinks that he’s going to need to reevaluate his categorization of bad days again before he crumples to the floor. Eleven states and six months later he realizes that Abraham is going to have to manage without him, and nothing can be worse than this. Nothing, _nothing_...

July, 1861. It’s the first major battle. There are close to five thousand casualties.

Things get worse.


	5. Chapter 5

America slowly buttons his jacket. He ignores the slight tremble in his hands and the way the room seems to tilt ever so slightly to one side or the other - honestly, he's feeling pretty good, right now. The people still squabble and argue and he's known for a long time that they're never really going to  _stop_ , but the country as a whole has slid neatly into the era of industrialization, cranking out new inventions and innovations at dizzying speed. Good dizzying, though he had never thought such a thing was possible. He feels  _strong_ , like the ground is stable under his feet for once, like he can breathe a little easier.

He struggles to put on his hat. The wounds from the civil war are still healing, and Reconstruction has been quickly and efficiently rolled back until it was though it had never even existed, and he can't lift his arms up over his head without extreme pain.

But it's good. He's doing well. The country is doing well. The economy is doing well.

If he keeps telling himself that, maybe one day, it'll actually be true.

America looks at himself in the mirror, makes sure his suit is unwrinkled and his hat is on properly, forces himself to stand up a little straighter, forces the muscles in his face into something resembling a smile.

Today is a good day. He's determined to make it one, if nothing else.

* * *

Just after the turn of the century. It isn't a good day, and nothing can  _make_ it a good day, because the President is dead.

There isn't even a  _reason_ for him to have been shot. The people aren't at war, not with anyone else and not with themselves - at least, they're content to just argue with one another instead of take up arms, except that  _isn't true_ , because McKinley was  _shot_ and that boy Roosevelt isn't Vice President anymore, he's  _President_ , and- and the President was  _shot_.

People will always argue, Ben had told him, but America doesn't want them to argue if this is the result of it. McKinley is his third leader assassinated in the past forty years. The people are proud to say they live in a free country, but if  _this_ is their freedom? How is it any better than being under British rule? He disagreed with England, but he's starting to think that he would prefer to have the other Nation back if it meant a day without pain.

America lets his head drop into his hands and screws his eyes shut, trying to will the stabbing pain in the back of his skull away. He wants- quiet. No pain. Another Nation he can talk to, but the people seem to mostly agree about keeping out of European affairs, which cuts him off from Spain and France and Prussia and England (who he doubts would see him even if their countries were in a formal alliance, which they aren't), and the people seem to mostly agree about how the Russian Czars are tyrants, so his contact with Russia is equally limited. He wants...

 __He _wants_. He wants a lot of things, but he knows by now that he won't get any of them, so he hopes. Hope has gotten the people this far. Maybe it will do something for him, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Al's still a pretty young Nation here, all things considered, so while having three leaders assassinated is probably considered old hat for the European Nations (who have been around for wayyyy longer, of course, and they've seen a lot more things, most of them very ugly), it's kind of unprecedented for Al. He's having his first realization that being a Nation = near-immortality and that's a heck of a long time, and he's actually going to need to find a way to cope with that.


	6. Chapter 6

Across the sea, Europe is at war. Russia has fallen into revolution - something about this revolution is worrying to America, though normally the idea would excite him. As far as he knows, no other Nation with a democratic government deals with the same pain he goes through, which is- good. Good, yes, he really wouldn't wish this on anybody, and even if he doesn't understand  _why_ he's the only one, it's- it's  _okay_. He's gotten used to- to everything by now.

Maybe he's the only one because his country was founded this way, whereas everybody over in Europe is just kind of old.

Speculation, and he's done enough of that over the years. Unimportant (maybe a little bit important, but really, there's nothing much he can do about it), moving on.

Russia has fallen into revolution, and in theory, this opens the potential for a democracy. But there are also communist forces at play, and America really really  _really_ does not want to see his old friend fall to a communist uprising. That puts their governments at odds, which by default should put  _them_ at odds, except it isn't the fault of the Nation what government they happen to have. They have autonomy, too, at least to an extent. He doesn't  _want_ to hate his friend.

President Wilson has decided, now that the Czars are out of the picture, that the United States can enter the war in Europe in the name of democracy, which will mean (if they win) that there will be many, many new democratic Nations. That's a good thing. And maybe, if (when?) they win, he can talk to Wilson about sending troops to Russia's aid, also in the name of democracy. That would be a good thing, too. But right now, right now the focus is on Europe, where everything has gone to hell in a handbasket because a Serbian nationalist attacked an Austrian in Bosnia, and Russia backed Serbia but Germany backed Austria and France backed Russia so Germany had to go to war against France...?

"Ow."

President Wilson looks over in confusion. America flashes him a reassuring smile.

"Thinking about the alliance systems in Europe, how we got into this mess. Awful complicated."

"Indeed," Wilson agrees.

...and Germany attacking France left Belgium (he thinks it's Belgium, at least) defenseless, which meant England had to side with France...

The people are still disagreeing with one another, but it's thankfully just background noise right now. Still, thinking about however the hell Europe works just makes his head ache, and he gets enough of that anyway, so he stops.

* * *

"Self-determination," England repeats, the words sounding odd coming out of his mouth.

America shrugs and tries not to feel self-conscious. He hasn't actually spoken to his former mentor (friend? brother?  _father?_ ) for a very long time. This is the first civil conversation they've had that he can remember since... the Revolution...?

"Self-determination," he agrees, nodding a couple times and hoping he sounds confident. Smiling helps with that, so he smiles as well. "See, part of your problems were because you had these different groups of people in a country more loyal to each other than to the country they lived in, right? All the instability in the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the Balkans? So if those people, those different groups, were given their  _own_ countries, things would be better, run more smoothly."

England doesn't look like he agrees. Or maybe he's just tired- war makes a mess out of Nations, and America is incredibly aware of how  _lucky_ his men are. Enter the war late, snatch up the win after the way has been paved for it. "And this  _self-determination_ , it will break up empires which have lasted for centuries."

America waits for him to continue, but England doesn't appear to have anything else left to say.

So he responds, simply, "Yes."

England is shorter than him, now. America isn't entirely sure when that happened. He walks stiffly, and his voice is a bit rough, but when he finally turns and meets America's gaze and holds it- those eyes, sharp and green and stripping away the layers of his defenses as if they were nothing- America feels like a little child again.

"Self-determination," England says again, and he drops his stare, lets out a heavy sigh. "You know, we didn't think you'd ever last this long." America isn't entirely sure what to say to that. "You weren't  _supposed_ to last this long. Your army was pathetic, your people couldn't agree on a single _damn_ thing - when your first leader  _willingly_ stepped down, everyone thought that so-called country would be gone by the end of the century. He was leaving a power vacuum behind, and everyone would rip each other apart for the chance to fill the gap. And it's been more than a hundred goddamn years, and here you are."

He really isn't sure what to say to that.

"Well, congratulations. If your President Wilson gets his way, there will be new countries popping out of the woodwork, following in your footsteps."

He definitely isn't imagining the bitterness in England's tone, but he still can't find the words to say- are there even any words to say, here? But England just sighs again and splits off from the aimless path they had been walking around Versailles to go talk to one of his delegates, and America is left standing alone, confused.

_New countries popping out of the woodwork, following in your footsteps._

A spike of pain shoots up through the base of his skull and throbs, and he grits his teeth. Wilson wants this treaty ratified. Congress isn't particularly fond of it.

New Nations, like him, under a democratic leadership.

_Following in your footsteps._

...That's a good thing. It's got to be a good thing.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Okay, seriously, what the  _fuck_.

The world is a strange blur, thoughts and days and actions all sliding together into some incoherent mess, interspersed with moments of blinding clarity that only serve to leave him all the more dazed. The newspaper is in French, and he isn't sure why, and the last thing he really  _properly_ remembers is... Nuremberg? No, no, it's- it's-  _Berlin_ , but a different Berlin, a Berlin chopped in two, and he was flying a plane, letting boxes of candy tumble out of the cargo bay with little parachutes attached. He remembers  _that_.

"Coffee, Alfred?"

"Sure."

"You take milk?"

"Nah, black is fine. Thanks, Mattie."

The newspaper is in French because his brother Canada manages to get the only Canadian newspaper printed in the language delivered to him, and the reason he's holding a newspaper in French is because  _he's in Canada_ because-

A cup of steaming coffee is put in front of him. America blinks at it a few times, wondering where it came from, then swivels his gaze up to find his brother's face watching him with no small amount of concern. "You didn't need to make me coffee."

"You asked me to," his brother points out softly, sitting down on the couch next to him and taking the newspaper from his hands.

"I did?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." America frowns. "Why'd you take the newspaper?"

"How much French do you  _actually_ remember, Al?"

"Fair point." A pause. "Why's it in French?"

"Because I like reading things in French, sometimes, that's all." Canada shrugs and drinks his tea and pretends not to be concerned, but America takes his mug of coffee and watches him out of the corner of his eye, just like Canada is watching  _him_ out of the corner of  _his_ eye. Both of them are pretending not to notice the other. At least, that's how he perceives it. "Are you feeling any better?"

He's in Canada because his government fucking  _blacklisted_ him. Because he had the audacity to travel to Russia's house during his famine and bring food. Because he was helping an old friend-

-goddamn  _communist_ -

-and that is enough for his own people to condemn him.  _Him_. Literally, the embodiment of their country.

His head feels like it's going to crack open, and there's a steadily growing sense of unease inside of him. Every passing day makes it worse, and he's- afraid?

If he can't trust his people, then what the hell is he supposed to do?

"Nope."

"Okay."

Is it terrible of him to think that the Second World War was- was- a  _relief_? He feels sick even thinking it, but it had dragged them out of the Great Depression, and the people had been  _united_ , had thrown themselves into the war effort after Pearl Harbor, had stood firm behind President Roosevelt until his dying breath. He rode out the economic high and felt his mind go blissfully quiet for a few short years.

Lucky, again. He knows he got lucky again. Come after the worst of the war has been fought. Drop the bomb. Win the war. Europe is in shambles, split in two like Germany, and-

- _can't trust anybody-_

-whatever is happening now, whatever it is, he just wants it to be  _over_. The day drags on and on and his skin crawls- he's  _being watched_ \- if he can't trust his people, then what the hell is he supposed to do? Duck and cover and wait for the fallout?

"They're doing what they think is right," Canada tells him, and he isn't sure when his brother sat down, and he isn't aware that he'd been talking out loud. Whatever he's been talking about, his brother's appearance has effectively derailed it, and he can't remember. "I've talked to my boss, he says he can arrange a meeting with your government on your behalf. Real quiet, no one outside us two will know about it."

"Got spies in the government, Mattie."

"No one outside us two will know about it," Canada repeats, a bit more firmly, and America embraces the lie.

* * *

They're all calling it detente, which is nice, because it means that there's another thaw, but it's  _not nice_ because there are  _Soviets in the capital_ , but it's good because Russia is here- and bad, for the same reason, really.

His skin feels like there are ants crawling all over it, his paranoia levels all over the place- because now the people think there's an end in sight, with this thaw, but his own mind has turned and keeps saying that  _nothing is safe_ and  _the people aren't safe_ and  ** _you are not safe_** -

"Dear God, I just want this to be  _over_."

"You think I do not feel the same way?"

He hasn't spoken to Russia since Potsdam. It's probably for the best. America tries not to think about what they could have done to each other with the Cold War raging and the arms race at its peak. For whatever reason, they've found themselves alone in one of the White House hallways, standing a safe ten inches apart and gazing out a window onto the green. Russia is paler than America remembers, skin leaning toward the same grey color of his scarf. His hands are clasped behind his back. His lips are turned downward in a frown. He looks- tired. Like America feels.

"Just because we're spying on each other all the time doesn't mean I know your emotional state at any given moment."

Astonishingly enough, that gets a laugh. A harsh kind of noise, startled out of the taller Nation, who looks less tired and more surprised at himself.

"Fair enough."

He's seen the world change drastically- initiated that change, some would argue. The gradual turn from the age of empires into the age of democracy, from wars on the battlefield to wars of technological might.

"It  _will_ end, though. It's gotta end."

"You sound so sure."

"But that's the  _thing_ with Nations! We don't  _die_ , not that easily. These things- the wars have to end, and we keep living."

It sounds hopeful. He means it to be hopeful. But Russia nods grimly, and America feels a hollowness inside him that has nothing to do with the nausea brought on by what is adding up to be two centuries of migraines. Immortality is a long, long time.

The air feels heavy. The hallway is still empty, and far too quiet.

"So- outer space, right?"

The smile Russia offers is sharp. "Salyut 1 was most successful."

"Okay, but the latest Apollo mission-"

"Who smuggled items on board with the intent of making a profit-"

"You cannot _honestly_ tell me that you wouldn't buy a stamp that has traveled into outer space." America looks sideways at him. Russia doesn't respond for a few moments, then gives a non-committal shrug of his shoulders, refusing to concede even that small victory. Fair enough. America isn't willing to concede any victory, either, no matter how tiny.

Also, he'd definitely buy a stamp that's been in space.

"Besides, they're talking about a joint mission with an Apollo rocket."

"And Soyuz,  _da_?"

"Yes, that's the name!"

Detente.  _Thaw_. Outer space is enough to distract him from his democratic-induced troubles for a bit. It's good to have someone to talk to who's on equal footing with him, even if that equal footing is really more like the two of them constantly scrabbling for higher ground above the other and never quite managing it.

It's good to think maybe (maybe) that this could have an end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, two chapters in two days!! I feel accomplished.
> 
> Okay, so, Cold War + Space Race are two of my favorite things, and I //love// reading about them. Blacklisting was a thing that happened during the Cold War in which people with communist affiliations (or suspected communist affiliations) were banned from certain privileges, which generally meant expulsion from their labor union or getting fired from their job. Or both. Detente was a thing during the 70s in which the US and USSR did their best to calm down and not nuke one another, and saw the Apollo-Soyuz mission, which was pretty cool. International outer space cooperation.
> 
> Also, there was a thing with Apollo 15 in which the astronauts brought some three hundred stamps into space with the intent to sell them when they returned?? And then Congress found out and people were displeased.
> 
> Anyway. America as unreliable narrator, Cold War paranoia, a glimpse at detente. Hope everyone enjoyed. Comments are always appreciated!!


	8. Chapter 8

When the government shuts down again ( _again_ , dear God, can't they learn to get along? it's only been two hundred years, not like they've had time to practice, or anything...) he just about pukes on the spot. The only thing that keeps him from doing so is that he's currently in another meeting with Russia (Bill, his current boss, is bent on improving international relations and if that means forcing the two Nations to spend weekends together, then that's what it means), and Russia is wearing that scarf Ukraine made for him, and America is  _pretty_ sure that if he throws up on that scarf, they're going to skip straight past espionage and proxy wars and just break out the nukes.

He remembers a vague incident long since passed, someone accidentally spilling a flute of wine at a diplomatic thing way,  _way_ back in the 1790s. The poor guy who did nearly wet his breeches in fear of the expression on Russia's face.

Okay, yeah, don't puke. Good plan.

Something apparently shows on his face, because Russia tilts his head to one side and looks surprisingly concerned. He doesn't move, though, doesn't say anything but " _Amerika_?" in a rather odd tone, and America is pretty grateful for that, because any actual worry expressed would be a bit too much to deal with at the moment. They used to be friends, he and Russia, but that relationship got smashed into teeny tiny pieces over the past century. It's a slow fix.

On the plus side, he knows the reason for his sudden turn of health. Bill had to explain to him what was going on three different times back in November because he was too delirious to focus.

Still, he's been hoping that they'd get everything straightened out. Evidently not.

"Political parties," he mumbles by way of reply, letting his head drop into his hands, breathing slowly through his nose and fighting down the awful churning in his stomach. "Can't agree on a budget, right, so they put government workers on furlough and close all supposedly non-essential services. See, should've listened to George. Farewell address, 1797. No political parties 'cause it'll mess shit up."

Russia doesn't say anything for a while. He isn't sure if the other Nation is being quiet to give him a bit of space or if he's just a little bit weirded out and doesn't know what to say. America turns the two possibilities over in his head until he hears footsteps, and the couch cushions dip next to him, and there's something pressed into his hand.

"Our leaders would be... pleased, if they hear you choose to stay longer," Russia says carefully. America cracks an eye open to look at him. He isn't as pale or gaunt as he was during the past century, though he still hasn't managed to shake the appearance of perpetual weariness. But he looks the  _same_ , the same scarf and same white-blond hair and same lavender eyes that catch and hold America's attention if he glances at them for so much as a moment. He's tempted. All he really wants is to lie down and sleep, and maybe have someone else bring him something to eat instead of trying to do it himself when moving makes him want to curl into a ball in the corner. He can't remember anyone ever doing that for him before. "It does not inconvenience me. You can sleep here until you feel well again."

He wishes he could say yes.

"Thank you," he says, and he genuinely means it. "But if shit's going down back home, I really ought to be there. I'll know more about what's going on, and I feel better on home soil, y'know?"

Russia nods once, slowly. "Let me help you pack."

It sounds a bit more like a command than anything else, but America contemplates the sheer  _size_ of this place, and having to walk to where his suitcase is and put everything in it and walk all the way back  _with_ his suitcase, and nods. "Okay."

Then he looks down at the item in his hand. It's a metal flask.

"Vodka, seriously?"

"Russian water,  _da_?"

"I appreciate the offer, but hangovers don't ever really help my situation."

"Fair enough." Russia gets to his feet, offers America his hand. America takes it without thinking, and resolutely ignores it sliding up his arm to grip his elbow, supporting him as they begin to walk. "You never mentioned."

It doesn't sound accusing, for some reason. America considers pondering that fact, then decides not to. Focusing on the conversation at hand takes enough mental effort by itself. "Come on, brand-new country that's invoked the ire of the British Empire, the skepticism of Europe, and has a foreign policy that's strictly isolationist? Wasn't gonna open up conversations with the fun fact that there's something wrong with my head. Unless that's normal. Again, never talked about it."

" _Nyet_ , it is not." Russia takes a few more moments to reply. "...I hope you are well again soon."

...That's not painfully awkward at _all_. America realizes they've gotten to the second floor without him noticing, which means he's gotta be really out of it, which means he  _really_ probably shouldn't be having any sort of emotional conversation with anyone he knows, much less Russia, friend to enemy to whatever the he is to America now.

"Been wishing that for a couple hundred years, but thanks, I guess."

Everyone is always telling him he doesn't have a brain to mouth filter, and he's always going to argue that he _does_ , thanks very much. He just doesn't know where it's vanished to right now. Seriously, what the  _hell_ , brain? Situation definitely defused, now. Situation no longer awkward in any way, shape, or form. Self-deprecating jokes are not heroic, stop making them.

"You are welcome."

Though if Russia is willing to ignore it, so is he.


	9. Chapter 9

 By  _now_ , he thinks his people and his government really ought to be trusted to take care of themselves. Minor hiccups he understands, they're all only human, but his head feels like it just got hit with a tractor-trailer. Why is it that everything seems to go to hell in a handbasket when he leaves the country?

Latvia is up at the front of the room giving a presentation. America tuned out... he doesn't know how long ago he tuned out, too focused on not throwing up or passing out mid-meeting to try and make out the clock on the far wall. It's midnight back in the capital, and something's going on, probably to do with Congress, and if this is another federal shutdown he's going to be- sick, he's going to be sick very soon,  _breathe_ , America.

Breathe in, breathe out. They're going to need to stop for a break sometime soon, the attention span of some Nations remarkably short at times, and when that happens he can call home (and to hell with the time zones) and ask what's happening. Could probably check the news just as easily, but-

Breathe in, breathe out.

There's a gavel slamming against a desk in his head with the pounding of his heartbeat; with each blow, his vision flickers around the edges, tunneling and going dark. By the time he vaguely registers Germany calling a break, he doesn't feel any better, but he's quashed down the nausea well enough and feels able to stand and start putting papers away in his briefcase and keep up a semblance of normality.

Nations stream towards the exit, focused mostly on food and not dealing with the busywork their bosses give them at these meetings to keep them out of trouble and paying little heed to anything else. No one seems to notice that he doesn't follow suit, and when the room has emptied almost completely, America sits back down and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

_"Alfred."_

Barack sounds tired, but kind of a weary-tired, not a just-woke-up-tired. "What the hell."

It's an all-encompassing statement, words to express everything America is too out of it to find better words for.

His boss just sighs.  _"The federal government has temporarily suspended most proceedings until an agreement can be reached on the budget for the new fiscal year. You know the rest of what's been going on."_

"Nn." Maybe he can skip out on the rest of the meeting. Take a nap. Try not to throw up. "What do you want me to tell everyone?"

_"That your government hasn't given you much information, so you don't have very much to say on the subject matter."_

Oh, well  _that's_ helpful.

_"Then go back to the hotel and get some rest. I know what kind of a toll this takes on you."_

"Thanks, boss..."

_"Goodnight, Alfred."_

When he looks up, Russia is standing across the table from him, frowning pensively over the edge of his scarf. America can't even muster up the energy to be startled, though he manages a glare.

"You should not attend the rest of the meeting," Russia says, rather bluntly.

America shakes his head- regrets it a moment later, everything blurring around him. He _wants_ to go home, sure, but that doesn't mean he'll admit it. And he needs to stay and make some attempt to explain what's happening. The news is going to get wind of everything soon enough, and then the international reaction- "Dude, I'm fine."

_"Nyet."_

"Russia-"

_"Amerika."_

Russia returns the glare with one of his own, still standing and not feeling like he's going to either throw up or pass out, because he's a bit of a dick like that- and then the world tilts rather oddly, and then the next thing America knows, his former rival is walking him towards the door, muttering under his breath in Russian. He can only guess what the other Nation is saying, but it's probably about idiot Americans and their system of government- and this whole situations feels weirdly familiar, come to think.

"You don't need to  _walk_ me there, I can find my own way."

Russia makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. They aren't going straight down the main hallway and out the doors like America expects them to- Russia seems determined to take a circuitous, roundabout loop, and it takes him a minute or ten to clue into the fact that whenever they spin about abruptly and go down yet another hallway, it's to avoid a Nation coming from the opposite direction. He says something again in his own language before dropping back into English-

"Do you really want to be blamed for the actions of your government,  _comrade_?" he asks tersely, a deliberate emphasis on the very last word, and America finds he doesn't have a response.


	10. Chapter 10

But then, the thing is, outside the building, Russia doesn't  _leave_. The taller Nation walks him out a side door and across the parking lot to his car, all but starts to drive him back to the hotel until America gives up the last shreds of his dignity and puts his hand on Russia's face. The action is evidently surprising enough that he succeeds in pushing Russia back a couple of steps.

"Literally been dealing with this for centuries, I can drive back."

Russia looks unimpressed with both his statement and his method of obtaining personal space. "On which side of the road?"

"Right."

_"Nyet."_

"Shit."

"Alfred."

"I can drive."

"You really cannot."

"They'll ask questions if we both vanish."

"They will think you are in hiding because they want to have answers about what is happening with your government, and they do not care where I am unless I am in the same room as them."

Russia's voice hasn't changed, same with his expression. America squints.

"That's- that's really fucking messed up, man."

"I am driving."

"...Fine."

* * *

Someone is pounding on the door to his hotel room. America is throwing up into the toilet, eyes watering, throat burning with the taste of his own bile. He's a bit more preoccupied with the vomiting thing than with the door thing, and the only reason he even  _cares_ about the pounding is because it's really disgustingly loud and the rhythm is off with the tempo of the stabbing pain in his skull, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

"Please be quiet," he gasps into the toilet bowl between heaves, sounding pathetically small even to his own ears. "Please, please go away, be quiet."

The tenor of the voice filtering in from the outside is familiar, even if he can't focus enough to make out words. England is there. France, maybe? Others? He feels his stomach roll-

And then the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking and the door being shoved open. America has about a moment to feel resigned to whatever happens next before he throws up again.

The voices go blissfully, mercifully quiet.

"Hey, Al."

His brother, voice low and soft and kind, a hand on his shoulder.

America croaks a hello back. Tries to, at least.

“You could've called. I would have left the meeting with you.”

...which begs the question, how  _did_ he get here? He remembers- Russia, wasn't it? Russia had walked with him out of the building? Had  _drove_ him here, even? Everything after the meeting is a bit vague. And again, throwing up.

"M'fine."

“No, you aren't. You think you're done in here? I'll give you a hand to the bed.”

“Nnnope.”

He reaches up with a shaking hand to flush the toilet, 'cause the smell is terrible and he's already feeling sick enough, and then he throws up again. Canada's hand stays on his shoulder.

"But surely it isn't  _that_ bad..."

Right, England is here. And loud. Ugh.

“Some quiet right now, eh, Francis?”

_“Oui, Mathieu.”_

Somewhere along the line, he stops puking his guts out, which is a refreshing change. Canada has turned the bathroom lights off so that the only real light is from the room outside, and that helps, and his stomach has emptied itself of all its contents so he doesn't have anything left to vomit. His brother holds out a hand.

"You good to get up?"

"Nn," he replies eloquently, but takes the hand all the same. Stands. Lets his brother catch him when his knees buckle. "You re'ember when- when you... got shot in the head. World War One. Had t'walk five miles back t'base camp."

He can't tell, because his eyes are closed and his head is resting against Canada's shoulder, but he's pretty sure from his brother's tone of voice that he's making a face. "Vividly."

"Feel like that."

Canada pats his head, and he will only maybe admit on pain of death that he finds it comforting. "I'll keep the others out of your hair for a bit, eh? Text me if you need anything."

* * *

Someone is knocking on the door to his hotel room. The pain in his head has subsided a bit; America finds he can sit up in the darkened room without feeling too dizzy and move without wanting to die. That's nice.

For a moment he thinks it's England or France (they  _had_ been here earlier, right? he's pretty sure he remembers that), and then he considers it might be Canada, except those three had broken the lock on his door to get in. The knocking isn't subsiding, like the person on the other side is waiting for a response.

He weighs the pros and cons between raising his voice to a volume loud enough that the mystery guest can hear and actually getting up to open the door. Neither of them are particularly appealing, but talking loudly seems like a worse idea than walking slowly, so he fumbles for his glasses and shuffles on over and somehow manages not to trip and break his neck and cracks the door open a bit.

Russia blinks down at him.

America blinks back.

Russia holds up a thermos. "...Soup."

"Are you offering?"

" _Nyet_ , I wanted to show you of its existence." Russia's eyes narrow a bit; he holds the thermos out a bit more. "Good for when you are ill."

"Thanks...?" America takes it with a hand that is totally not trembling, of course not, why would his hands be shaking, that's ridiculous.

The world tilts a bit.

 _I'm going to go pass out again now,_ he wants to say, but he can never think straight when he's like this and asks, "What happened at the rest of the meeting?" because of course he's going to try and make conversation through a half-opened door with a Nation he's still not entirely sure if he's friends with or not. Never let it be said the United States of America cannot make smart decisions.

Russia's lips twitch in a vaguely sardonic smile, gone as quickly as it comes. He seems more concerned than anything else, which is still unnerving. "Chaos, as normal. It ended not long after I returned."

"Right." America nods a couple of times, regrets it.  _I'm going to go pass out again now._ "What kind of soup?"

"Borscht."

"Bless you."

"...That is not even a difficult word." Russia shakes his head a couple times and seems entirely unaffected by the movement. Totally unfair. "Many vegetables, better than your canned goods."

 _Thank you for the soup, nice talking, going to leave._ "We have vegetables in the country. Agriculture's a... thing."

"Go back to lying down." Russia smiles again, but it's a different smile than before, one America can't quite place. "Your stores sell things cheap. Keep the thermos."

 _Cool, thanks, gonna pass out now._ "'Night."

"It is two in the afternoon."

 _Play it cool._ "Close 'nuff."

It's good soup, whatever the hell it is, and he gets about a quarter of it down before he starts feeling nauseous. Then he crawls back under the covers and hopes he'll be able to move around enough to get to the meeting tomorrow and closes his eyes.

Russia's weird. No need to worry about screwing up conversations with him when there are other things to worry about.


End file.
